If you go down to the woods today...

OK, there's a few technical inaccuracies with the post title and the associated assumptions therein: I wasn't exactly in a wood; it wasn't today; there were no bears; no picnic occurred; and, I did believe my eyes, 'cos there's photographic proof.

But apart from that, it's spot on. Because. A certain because.

So whilst it wasn't a big surprise, it was mildly pleasing in a wildlife watching kind of way.

Which would obviously ruin the scansion, but hey, when did you ever tune in to Imperfect and Tense for faithful renditions of a 1932 children's song?

Really? You should get out more.

Anyway, the following took place on consecutive weekends in May, at the Hanson Environmental Study Centre, just down the road from Tense Towers.

Not so very long ago, when Our Lass and I were still struggling to find a single member of either the Zygoptera or Anisoptera with which to commence the 2013 flight season, we were bimbling through the reserve, noticing all manner of invertebrate life with the exception of dragons and damsels.

Loitering by a particularly interesting patch of Comfrey, we were roused from our bug reverie by  the sound of a large splash and a great deal of honking (as of a goose, rather than someone throwing up).

Aware that about 100 yards further along the path was a view across to the nest of a Canada Goose, and wondering what the heck was going on, we made haste to said spot. Rounding a bend in the track, we immediately spied the goose, stood over its nest and calling in a rather agitated fashion. The water which surrounded the small outcrop of land where the nest was built, was still showing signs of ripples from whatever had created the big splash.

I was musing upon which suspects would go up on the Scene of Crime Officer's wall, when Our Lass nudged me and excitedly whispered "Fox!"

Appearing out of the undergrowth, not far from the anxious Anatidae, was a healthy-looking Fox, who proceeded to head towards us along the track, apparently oblivious to our presence.

Photo courtesy of Our Lass

Photo courtesy of Our Lass

Eventually, some vulpine sense kicked in and we were rumbled, the would-be thief and goose-botherer melting into the undergrowth quicker than you could say "Look at the brush on that!"

Once things had quietened down, we left the goose in peace and wandered off to the Near Hide, where we were soon treated to some more entertainment courtesy of Reynard Productions. The Fox had found its way onto the bund and was busy searching the vegetation at the water's edge for any signs of nesting birds. It soon came to the attention of a pair of Lapwings, who took great delight in dive-bombing it, with accompanying alarm calls, until they had harried it into departing stage left.

Cut to the following weekend and, again, we were to be found at HESC, soaking up the Spring sunshine and basking in the glow of satisfaction at having now seen a dragon or two. Whilst JD (of Rotton Yarns fame) and I were talking to another wildlife watcher, Our Lass wandered off. When we set off again, she was nowhere to be seen. As we rounded a bend in the path, we spotted her, 50 yards up the track, gazing intently into the undergrowth. Turning to face us, Our Lass put a finger to her lips to warn us to be quiet. Intrigued as to what she might have found, I inquired by means of much arm waving as to whether it was a dragon (flaps outstretched arms) of perhaps a mammal (makes scrabbling paws motion). Our Lass shrugged an internationally understood shoulder movement, as if to ask what the heck I was on about. Patiently, and to the consternation of JD, I repeated my flapping and scrabbling message, which this time provoked a definite scrabbling response.

Turning to JD, I sternly intoned, "It's a Badger, don't ask how I know."

We crept up to join Our Lass, who was still watching a patch of thick vegetation consisting mainly of Comfrey and Nettles. The occasional movement of a leaf or plant was accompanied by a crunching sound, not unlike someone enjoying  a packet of crisps. I mean really enjoying a packet of crisps, none of this genteelly nibbling one at a time.

Now this was 4pm on a sunny afternoon, so JD was fairly convinced that it was a Rabbit chewing on a juicy stem. But Our Lass and I had experienced this particular noise before, perhaps twelve years previously, and not too far from this spot. We were in no doubt that it was a young Badger, presumably gorging upon snails. Unfortunately, the thick vegetation made it impossible to achieve anything like a decent confirmatory view, other the occasional glimpse of several square inches of rough grey fur, the proverbial Badger's arse. After patiently watching for fifteen minutes or so, we were rewarded with a flash of black and white stripes through the leaves. Case proven!

Eventually, Junior Brock had eaten his fill and disappeared further into the undergrowth, his course identified by the twitching of stems into the distance until all was still once more.

Progress of sorts

Odonata numbers have crept up this weekend. 

At HESC, we now have six species on the wing:

Azure damselfly
Large Red damselfly
Common Blue damselfly
Red-eyed damselfly
Broad-bodied Chaser
Hairy dragonfly

Female Hairy dragonfly

BBC News

Image courtesy of bbc.co.uk

It is evening, just before 9pm. The sun has just set and the light is fading fast.

To the south, a gibbous moon shines weakly. The temperature is dropping quickly under clear skies and a freshening wind.

You receive a phone call from a friend.

"Just wanted to let you know there's a dragonfly at the nature reserve...  thought you might be interested... I'm about 18 inches away from it...I've taken a few photos, but had to use flash."

What would you do?  Would you go?

Hell, yes.

I carefully abandoned parked the car beside the Centre and dashed strolled over to the raised tanks that were used in the past for what I presume were trials of different aquatic habitats. The info received said that the dragon was here somewhere.

I checked all the vegetation, but couldn't see an insect anywhere. I checked again, walking around the other side of the tanks. Nothing. Then I looked at the surrounding wall to see if it was roosted there. Nope. 

I left a voice message to say thank you for the tip, but it looked like the dragon had flown or been predated. Hanging up, I put the phone back in my pocket and happened to look down. There, in the tank with little vegetation protruding above the surface and hence the one I'd not given much more than a cursory glance, was sat a Broad-bodied Chaser. A few feet to the left, its exuvia was clinging to the wooden frame around the tank. 

21.12 Exuvia (shed larval skin) clinging to woodwork above raised tank

21.15 Female Broad-bodied Chaser dragonfly

This might be today's only good news story.

Bug-gity, bug-gity, bug-gity, let's go racing, girls!

With apologies to Darrell Waltrip and oval racers everywhere.

Following the many and varied types of weather experienced in the UK this week (fortunately, this neck of the woods avoided the snow), today's offering from the meteorological gods was relatively benign. Solid white cloud, little wind, temperatures around 14C (57F).

Not warm enough for you-know-what.

Ever hopeful, Our Lass and I ventured to Hanson Environmental Study Centre this afternoon, to see if we could find any signs of previous dragon or damsel emergence during the past week (shed larval skins clinging to emergent vegetation). Chances were minimal, owing to the rain and hail showers which have occurred on recent days, as these would likely have washed the exuviae back into the water.

Along the boardwalk and by the pond-dipping pool, we drew a complete blank. The only insects on the wing were countless midges (dragon food!). As we walked through the Near Paddock, Our Lass spotted a Green-veined White butterfly sat on a Cowslip. Even the close presence of my phone didn't induce it to take to the air.

We visited the usual sheltered and well-vegetated spots most likely to attract teneral and immature Odonata, but to no avail. That isn't to say that the place was devoid of life, for as we progressed through the reserve, many species of insects were to be found on the plants beside the path.

Green dock beetle, Gastrophysa viridula. Er... x 3

A hover fly, possibly Helophilus pendulus

I think this is an Amber Snail, Succinea putris

Alder Fly, Sialis lutaria

Not a clue what this fly is (the plant is Garlic Mustard aka Jack-by-the-Hedge, Alliaria petiolata). I only included this photo for the cutesy little caterpillar!

Whilst we're talking about wild plants, this time of year has some magical moments. For me personally, there's something rather lush about the gorgeousness of fresh Comfrey flowers. Forgive me for not knowing whether this is the native Common Comfrey, Symphytum officinalis, or the naturalised hybrid Russian Comfrey, S. x uplandicum. Just enjoy the lushness!

Whilst I was trying to photograph yet another bug, a stunning red and black froghopper, Our Lass called out "Damsel!"

Sure enough, she had found an immature male Azure Damselfly, still only partially coloured blue and very nervous. It flew off before I could take a picture.

My better half then proceeded to find another three Azures at various sites within the reserve, before I managed to get in on the act with an individual that flew low over some vegetation before alighting on a grass stem. Our Lass looked at it through her bins, agreed with my ID and then pointed out another one that I had missed, roosting just behind it. I was able to identify this individual as a Large Red Damselfly.

So, six hard-won damsels in total, as late as the eighteenth of May. This is the only year where the first ode I've seen has been anything other than a Large Red. 2013 is just plain weird.

Sulky Saturday

I had a pleasant wander around the local nature reserve on Saturday morning. Highlights included Whitethroat, Kingfisher, Cuckoo, Garganey and several dozen Swifts.

The paths and boardwalks were littered with countless broken twigs (some up to an inch in diameter!) as a result of the strong winds the previous day. With the overnight rain, storm-lashed blossom coated many surfaces giving the place a surreal air, as if I had missed a grand  wedding.

Speaking of missing things...

Once more unto the breach that is the unforgiving blank page.

Seasonal schizophrenia

A Saturday mid-afternoon visit to Hanson Environmental Study Centre brought neither the hoped-for Swifts or an ode of any sort (dragons or damsels, as opposed to saucy limericks or rhyming couplets). A bitter wind continued to blow from the north west, the last vestiges of Winter spitefully hanging on, as if to taunt the land for its hope of a warm and pleasant Spring.

The lake was rather sparsely populated by a meagre assortment of wildfowl, though a growing throng of warblers were singing from the reedbeds, scrub and trees surrounding the water. The sky was either dark with heavy showers, or brightly lit with an assortment of sun-drenched fluffy clouds, like non-identical twins jostling for control of the heavens in a meteorological overture of alternating themes.

The Cowslips were having no truck with this indecision and duality, choosing instead to throw their all into a fecund explosion of colour.

We returned home to discover a pair of Mallard sat on the lawn, in a leisurely repose, following their feeding frenzy amongst the aquatic plants of the Tense Towers pond. The air was laden  with rhyming couplets, most of which featured the word 'duck'.

Well, what do you know? Spring has finally arrived!

After we had each endured a hectic week, Our Lass and I went out for a meal on Friday evening. Nothing too exotic, a local restaurant, a chance to talk, time to unwind. Foregoing a dessert (we were being good!), we settled up with our waitress and pottered off into the dusk. We walked down to the river, along the bank and then into a cemetery, following the path until we reached the confluence of the Rivers Lovat and the Great Ouse. We stood here awhile, listening to the last of the evening chorus, happy to catch a glimpse of a Kingfisher in the fading light, as it disappeared downstream piping its frenetic high-pitched call. Leaving the graveyard and climbing up to a road bridge, we paused again to take in the last of the light, marvelling at the pink and grey reflections of the sky in the water by the weir. A white shape floated across the grazing meadows and revealed itself to be a Barn Owl, silently portending the imminent death of some unfortunate rodent.

And so began our weekend.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the night's frost soon disappeared and warm sunshine greeted us on our short journey to the local nature reserve. On the off chance of an early damsel or dragon, we tarried by the pond-dipping pool. Sadly, there were no odes, but frog and toad spawn was much in evidence. Indeed, throughout the day, toads were calling and occasional splashes hinted at further romantic activity.

High above the water surface, the reed mace was busy shedding seeds in a gentle breeze. It was admirably helped in this endeavour by a small squadron of Blue Tits, which we presumed were busy gathering nesting material.

Suddenly, a churring sound jolted us from this fluffy reverie, as a Grasshopper Warbler began singing from a bush at the back of the pond. Sweet!

We wandered on a few yards further along the path to a handy bench. Sitting here, looking over the lake, we spotted a tern sat on a post. Bill colour, wing length and short legs hinted that this was an Arctic Tern, pausing on its way northward. Indeed, when a few Common Terns landed on adjacent posts, it was easy to see the differences between the two species.

Plants were making up for lost time too, Cowslip and Dog Violet now joining the Primroses and Coltsfoots which lined the path. Some yellow Gorse flowers were looking particularly splendid in the morning sun, but more abundant were the male catkins of Willow trees.

Having spent all Winter watching small finches at the top of Alder trees, I was pleasantly surprised to find this Redpoll feeding on seeds at ground level, on a branch blown into the water by some strong winds the preceding week.

We returned to the pond-dipping pool several times during the day, but remained ode-less. However, the amphibian antics kept us entertained and then Our Lass capped a cracking day by pointing out a Cuckoo as it flew by.

Meanwhile, in the natural world...

In a morning that brought sleet, snow, rain and hail in equal measure, the pair of Crows that  occupy the old Ash tree, behind Tense Towers, began to titivate their nest for the coming season. Despite the weather, they battled the elements to collect and transport a selection of twigs to upgrade last year's des res into the sort of contemporary accommodation that any discerning corvid would desire.

After breakfast, we drove down to Hanson Environmental Study Centre to drop off some books for the second-hand stall run by the Friends group. On a fence post by the single track road into the reserve, we were surprised to discover a very bedraggled Barn Owl, scanning the adjacent pasture for prey. I guess the rain that has been omnipresent for the last few nights has made hunting difficult and hunger has driven this bird to be out in daylight in less-than-favourable conditions.

Having completed our literary errand, Our Lass and I had a potter to the Near Hide and back, spotting the owl once more by the old Oak in the paddock and then glimpsing a Kingfisher and a pair of Pintail from the hide. At the end of the boardwalk, a few Coltsfoot were braving the elements though, wimps that we are, we didn't stay out too long.

Back at the Centre, we popped in for a cup of tea and a chat, entered the 'Guess the name of the Otter' competition to win a framed photo of one of the stars of Autumnwatch (no, it isn't Michaela, Chris, Kate or Martin) and even bought a book to grace the recently-created space on our shelves. Despite, or possibly because of, the miserable weather, there were visitors enjoying the view from the warm, dry Centre and watching the bird feeders or the occasional passing Muntjac deer. Very civilised and all in a good cause. Many thanks to the kind-hearted team of Friends volunteers who give of their time and effort to provide this facility for permit holders and the local community.

And even better news, there's only four weeks until the dragonfly season begins!

The strange case of the [insert name of animal here] in the night time

Recently, a calm and reasonably dry evening (this is a weather report, not a continence statement) saw me deploying a wildlife cam at our local nature reserve.

I am not sure that I've yet discovered the secret of successful camera trapping. I seem to pick the wrong location for subjects, or a location with vegetation that triggers the camera continuously, or even the wrong weather.

Exhibit A, a whole load of nothing

But faint heart never won a fair maiden, as they say (though what they actually said was a whole lot ruder, as I recall, but you get the idea). So another attempt was ventured.

The camera was targeted on a chicane in the path, with a view of the bit between the two bends. In truth, the path at this point is also a causeway between two water bodies, a fact that will increase in prominence as this blogpost unfolds.

Having ensured that:

1. a memory card was installed;
2. said memory card was empty and formatted;
3. the batteries were fully charged;
4. the lens was clean;
5. the camera was secured firmly;
6. the camera was pointing in the correct direction;
7. there wasn't any vegetation likely to trigger the PIR unnecessarily;
8. I had uttered a silent prayer to whichever deity was on wildlife duty that day;
9. the camera was still pointing in the correct direction;
10. it was still night time and I hadn't wasted the whole evening messing about with points 1-9.

... I returned home.

Sixteen hours later, I was back on site for the retrieval mission. Well, one always hopes it will be a retrieval mission, rather than a forlorn searching in the undergrowth and a general rant about how you can't leave anything lying around these days that's not tied down. And it was tied down, so what did they think they were doing, the complete and utter b*st*rds etc.

Fortunately, the camera was still there, though a quick check of the image count showed a paltry 24 photos. As at least half of these would've been triggered by me when setting up beforehand and switching off the camera afterwards, it didn't seem like it had been a particularly fruitful night.

However, once the memory card was plugged into my pc, it became obvious that some wildlife had triggered the camera. And whilst the images weren't great (I'd set the sensitivity to Normal, when perhaps High would've been better), they did prove the presence of several species.

Shortly before 10pm, a Fox put in its first appearance.

Much later at nearly 3am, there appeared to be a Badger foraging by the bench. 

But in between these times was the real surprise of the evening.

Either side of midnight, the camera was triggered by a creature that I was not expecting to be moving around during darkness...

A Mute Swan.

As mentioned earlier, the path is effectively a causeway at this point, so the swan was obviously shuffling from one water body to another. I suppose it could be in response to the fox's movements, though whether there's any danger for a swan if caught on land is debatable.

As one of my fellow bloggers remarked, "If you're up early, you're a lark. If you're up late, you're an owl. If you can't get to sleep, you're a swan!"

So all in all, it was an encouraging and educational experiment.

Note to self: remember camera

Rather than participate in the frenetic whirl of activity that is generated by the rapidly disappearing number of shopping days to Christmas, we went for some fresh air down at HESC, our local nature reserve.

And I remembered my camera.

There was still plenty of water about the place and some of the multitude of Mute Swans have now taken to spending their time in the smaller pools, rather than out on the main lake.

With a bit more judicious pruning, there will be a fantastic view from this bench...

though not everyone was excited about that as I was.

The view from the Near Hide along the side of the main lake was one of dull and dreary Winter dampness.

Until, that is, I noticed what was happening to the Teasel heads...

Teasel babies!

Is it not written... ?

I don't know, dear reader, if you've ever taken the, er... time to read "Thief of Time" by (Sir) Terry Pratchett? In the Discworld canon, it's my favourite book, though, boy, does it have some stiff competition.

One of its leading characters is Lu Tze, a "little, bald, yellow-toothed man with a wispy beard and a faintly amiable grin". Although he is a senior History Monk, he works as a lowly servant in the Monastery of Oi Dong, from whence comes his other name, Sweeper.

So when I recently found myself with a broom in my hand and a carpet of leaves to sweep, I could barely stifle the little chuckle that surfaced courtesy of Lu Tze. For everything is a test.

It was a glorious Autumn morning at Hanson Environmental Study Centre. Bright sunshine was streaming in on a low trajectory, intent on seeking out the frost which coated the leaves lounging in a thick layer on the boardwalk that crosses several ponds. My task was simple, clear the fallen detritus before the day's visitors ran the risk of going arse over apex on the slippery surface.

Beginning by the Near Hide, I hadn't cleared many yards of path, when I heard an unknown bird call. At a time of year when all the Summer visitors have migrated south and not all the Winter visitors have yet put in an appearance, I would've liked to think that I knew to what I was listening, but no, I did not. It was a bit like a Blackcap alarm call, but slightly more metallic, so I felt sure that it was still an alarm call of some sort. A movement caught my eye in a bush to the right of the boardwalk and a small bird could vaguely be seen hopping from branch to branch. A Robin normally frequents this area, but though the size was correct for that, the shape wasn't.

I leant on my broom, in what I forlornly hoped was a studious and thoughtful way, but no insight was forthcoming. After a while, the bird neared the edge of the bush, still apparently upset at my presence, and revealed a few precious details. Its outline was warbler-ish, a bit like a Blackcap, but the plumage on its upper parts was a rich brown rather than grey/brown. And it had a rounded tail. Ah, Cetti's Warbler! That explained the skulking in the bush, for these wee birds are notoriously difficult to spot. Pity I was without binoculars or camera!

After I had unsuccessfully tried to record the alarm call with my phone, the Cetti's flew off and I returned to my task, happier and more educated. Several yards of leaves later, the bird began calling again, but this time with the more usually heard Cetti's song, an explosive mixture of notes that probably make it the loudest bird in Britain (at least for its size).

I stared at the far side of the pond that was the source of the sound, but not a movement could be seen from the reeds and rushes, just the occasional blast of noise from a very secretive warbler.

Yep, it's in there somewhere...

HESC provides swift solution to World's problems

Following another wet week and the local rivers bursting their banks in sympathy, this weekend has been largely dry so far, though blustery. Dark clouds and the occasional shower scampered across the sky, spurred on by a strong south westerly wind.

Yesterday, following an industrious morning, we decamped to Stony Stratford for lunch and a little pre-holiday shopping, to garner a few requisites for my trip to north west Scotland. Thicker fleece, waterproof trousers, that sort of thing. I must be the antipathy of the quintessential sun seeker.

By late afternoon, we were itching for some fresh air and nature, though with all the wet weather, 'itching' is probably an ill-advised term to use. Biting midges are making the most of the conditions at HESC, so I was hoping that the wind would keep them at bay, or at least offer us some respite from incessant attack.

Other insects were finding the meteorology challenging, too. It was only due to Our Lass's keen eyes that any damselflies were seen, mostly Azure but with a few Common Blues, all tucked away in the vegetation, riding out the 'storm'.

As ever, during bad weather, a Song Thrush was singing his heart out from a song post hidden by some trees. There were brief choruses of other bird song, mainly warblers, as the necessary business of defending a territory carried on, regardless of the rain.

Following a walk along a sheltered path between two hedges, which was where most of the midges were congregated, we took refuge in the Far Hide. Looking out over the main lake, there were very few waterfowl to be seen, a couple of Mute Swans, a smattering of Canada Geese, a pair of Great Crested Grebes, the odd Coot and the inevitable gaggle of Cormorants. Very little in the way of ducks or waders.

The music from a nearby festival carried into the river valley and gave a surreal feeling to proceedings, as we watched the patterns formed on the water surface by successive gusts of wind and listened to the various bands.

Whilst our quota of duckage may have been poultry paltry, this was more than compensated for by the presence of hundreds of other birds. Now, this is going to sound a bit heretical, but I think  lakes are a poor place for bird watching unless you're carrying sufficient optical power to spot a Lunar Long-tailed Duck on the Mare Tranquillitatis (Sea of Tranquility). Inevitably, wherever you are on the perimeter of a water body, most of the bird life will be out in mid-lake at best, or, more likely, tucked into the reeds diametrically opposite your current position. Yep, water is wasted on ducks.

So it was a pleasant surprise to feel in the thick of things, as hundreds of hirundines and several Swifts, hunted over the surface of the lake and the bordering vegetation. The bulk of this aerial armada was made up of House Martins and Swallows, with just a few Sand Martins to be seen amongst them. The twittering of Swallows is such a happy sound to my ears, only bettered by the gentle buzz of a contented Martin. And, boy, were they contented. The flock must've been feeding on a huge, invisible (to our eyes) cloud of insects, as the action was non-stop. Swooping, soaring, swivelling and scything, the massed ranks of blue and black cut a swathe through the air, and hopefully the midge population. I only had the camera on my phone to record this and inevitably failed miserably in the attempt.

Swallows and House Martins in action

The whole panorama of the lake was 180 degrees of fly annihilation, and as the hide was offering shelter to the reeds immediately to our front, this was where many insects were. Swifts would appear from our left, like the blur of a knife blade, cutting across the top of the vegetation and then out, low, over the water. Some would wheel on a pin point, right in front of us, as if redefining the laws of motion and physics. In fact, you could almost believe that their feeding behaviour was a solution to global warming. It felt as if their wings could slice through the bonds of a carbon dioxide molecule, releasing pure oxygen into the atmosphere and coating their feathers with carbon atoms. Perhaps they do, that's why they're black?

Crouching naturalist, hidden dragon

At HESC, this morning, I was walking alongside one of the ponds and stopped to watch several species of damselfly in the vegetation at the water's edge.

Fortuitously, whilst using my bins to identify a particular individual, my gaze alighted upon a dragonfly larva, tucked away amongst the reeds and ready to emerge as an adult dragonfly after two years underwater.

By the time I had deployed my camera, the action had started, the larval cuticle splitting behind the eyes and along the upper surface of the thorax.

8.14am - the thorax bursts through the larval skin

8.15am - the head and eyes are withdrawn from the larval skin

8.16am - the thorax is now free of the larval skin

8.17am - the first few segments of the abdomen emerge

8.18am - as the adult hangs backwards, the compressed wings can now be seen

8.20am - the breathing tubes linking the adult's thoracic spiracles to openings in the larval skin are breaking

8.26am - a period of quiescence follows whilst the legs harden in the sun's warmth

8.36am - the adult springs forward and grasps the top of the larval skin

8.36am - the remainder of the abdomen is now withdrawn from the larval skin

8.36am - the pale, newly-emerged adult sits on the now empty larval skin or exuvia

8.40am - body fluid is pumped into the wing veins to expand the wings

8.42am - bigger...

8.48am - and bigger...

9.05am - and bigger...

9.12am - until they are fully inflated

9.27am - the fluid is now withdrawn from the wings and used to pump up the abdomen

9.42am - once the thoracic muscles are warm enough, the wings snap open for the first time

9.47am - wings and body harden in the heat of the day and the body starts to develop colour

9.53am - the wings are now starting to look capable of flight

10.01am - the adult dragonfly adjusts position and reveals the characteristic wing markings of a Four-spotted Chaser 

10.10am - nearly two hours after emergence commenced, the adult dragonfly takes her maiden flight and moves to a safer position in full sun

During this time, I was joined by Our Lass, who played her part in an excellent morning's odo-ing by finding a Banded Demoiselle in the Centre garden. Other sightings included Hairy Dragonfly and a host of damselflies: Large Red, Common Blue, Azure, Blue-tailed and Red-eyed.

Another visit in mid afternoon added Broad-bodied Chaser to the total, making 9 species for the day. Odo-tastic!